


Belong

by serendipityspeaks



Series: Short Stories [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Magic, Ocean, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 05:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19968628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendipityspeaks/pseuds/serendipityspeaks
Summary: A young woman feels isolated from the other women in her family because they possess unique powers that weren't passed on to her.  She discovers that power is sometimes just a matter of finding your place.





	Belong

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little short story I wrote inspired by a random post on Tumblr. I legit don't even remember which post it was, lol.

My mom is a witch. 

No, really. She’s a witch. So is my aunt, and my grandma, and my other aunt, and my sister. Both of my aunts can light fires by flicking their fingers, and put them out the same way. Their fireplace is always warm, and in the fall they make the sparks of the firepit dance for us. They can make things grow, too, but they’re not half as good as my mom and my sister. You should see our garden. My grandma never talks about her magic. She never uses it. She won’t tell me what it is. She just shrugs and says, ‘we’ll see, maybe when you’re older’, but I’m twenty-five now and she’s seventy-seven. 

We live in Missouri, right next to the grande dame that is the Mississippi river. My mom tells me the river is old, ancient. That she can love you just as easily as she can make you taste the silken mud of her bed. My mom talks to the river and says the river answers. She comes home, her legs splattered in mud. She never rinses if off with the hose. ‘It’s a gift’, she says, ‘from the mother Mississippi’. She carefully brushes it into little jars and puts it on the shelves with the rest of the things she and my sister use to cast magic. 

Not me though. The river never speaks to me, and I don’t like getting muddy. She seems too young to know anything, always moving, never staying in the same place long enough to learn. If she’s alive, I don’t know her, and I don’t visit. I’m not a witch, you see, I’m just a person and I’m terribly vulnerable to drowning. Likewise, the corn fields hold no special mystery for me. The tall grasses of the plains don’t feel like home and they don’t make my blood sing. There’s magic in my family, and magic in our land, but there’s no magic in me. I don’t belong. I used to ask my mom if I was adopted, but we look so much alike that there really isn’t a question of my parentage. 

Lately, I’ve been chafing in our home. It feels too tight around me, and I’m choking on prairie dust. There’s no peace for me lately. The river seems to be angry; my mother has been coming home with clean legs and a confused frown. I’m snapping at my sister and wishing I was anywhere but here. This happens sometimes, I get taken by wanderlust. So I do the same thing I always do when home feels too small. I pack up my stuff, get in my car, and I drive. 

I don’t know where I’m going. The wide, open interstates of the country are simply drawing me east, and I watch the blacktop unravel under my tires. There are rules on the rule, rules in any liminal space, and no ones every explained them to me. I just know. Be kind, be polite, be cautious, and don’t linger too long. And if you need something, look for the gas station that has room for trucks. 

It takes about seventeen hours, but I reach the east coast of South Carolina sometime around sunset. I’ve never seen the ocean before. I’ve never been to the beach. Missouri is land-locked. 

I get out of my car, and the wind whips the smell of salt into my nose and I inhale. The wind is peace. I start down the path through the dunes, jogging towards the sound of the waves. I feel the vibration of them in my chest. When I spill out onto the wide, sandy shore, I stop to tug my socks and shoes off, slowing to a walk so I can feel the cool sand rub between my toes. 

There is a storm rolling in, and I can feel it, I can taste it. I can hear the ocean talking, like my mother says she can hear the river. She is old, older than the river. She’s been on the earth since before that muddy child, and she’ll be here after it dries up. _Home_ , she says. _You are home. I have been waiting for so long._

I reach the waves and I keep walking, not caring if I get wet. I stand and close my eyes and reach out with senses I didn’t think I had. I feel the chaos of her rushing through me, the energy twisting all around me. It’s like the wind that tugs at my hair. I open myself to it, letting it fill every inch. I call the storm to me, ask the waves to jump higher. They gladly do, crashing playfully against the shore. None of them knock me down. We are glad to finally meet. I stay for awhile, getting to know her, and she gives me gifts of shells and driftwood. I happily gather them, and thank her. 

When it’s finally dark, I go back to my car. My phone is in the center console, and when I fling myself onto the seat, my phone starts ringing. I answer it. 

“You’ve met her,” my grandmother’s voice says. It’s not a question. 

“Yes. Finally. I…” 

“You know now. I couldn’t explain it to you.” 

“She’s vast, ancient, complex, deep, chaotic and she’s equal parts beauty and terror. Things lurk in her depths.” 

“I know. Just like us.” 

“Yes,” I hold up my hand, watching the energy and electricity I’d been given by the storm dance across my fingertips in bright arcs, “Just like us.” 


End file.
